


Melatonin

by Schnappsfic



Series: McGenji Week [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blackwatch Era, Gen, M/M, McGenji Week 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 20:33:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15590178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schnappsfic/pseuds/Schnappsfic
Summary: Other nights, when he’s tossed and turned for hours and done nothing other than left himself a sweaty restless mess, he heads to the practice range and lets himself loose on the targets. It’s usually dead this time of night, and he takes comfort in the sound of Peacekeeper firing, hitting its mark.It’susuallydead, but the past few times he’s found himself sharing the space.





	Melatonin

McCree joined Deadlock when he was fifteen, angry at the world, and by all accounts an idiot. (If he’s being generous, probably no more so than any other fifteen year old.) He was with them for a little over two years, before Overwatch stepped in and dealt with them as though they were a petty nuisance rather than one of the most dangerous gangs in the country.

 

At twenty seven, he’s been with Blackwatch almost five times as long as he spent with Deadlock, and yet he still finds himself struggling to shrug the habits he picked up with them. He still smokes too much, drinks too readily, and two years spent trusting no one has left him awake at a moment’s notice, gun in hand.

 

Being a light sleeper was probably the most innocent of the bunch (or at least the one least likely to draw Angela’s ire), but easily the most annoying, living on a base that operated at all hours and a potential crisis only an alarm away. He’d barely slept his first week living there, getting by on adrenaline and coffee and the way Reyes looked at him like he might actually be worth something. He’d finally managed to crash out only after Reyes escorted him to his quarters and told him, “Either get some shut-eye or get yourself to Medical,” and then stayed there while McCree slept for about fourteen hours straight.

 

(A couple of years later, he’d asked Reyes about that, with just enough whiskey in him to take the edge off an answer he might not like. Reyes had shrugged, said that McCree had been worth the time. Said he’d gotten some paperwork done while he waited. Said that McCree was lucky his neighbours were heavy sleepers, the way he snored.)

 

(McCree had pretended the warmth in his chest was just from the booze.)

 

He’s gotten better since then, but there are still nights he lies awake, disturbed by footsteps and chatter and a sense of unease that no amount of reassurance ( _you’re as safe here as you could be anywhere_ and _there are folks here that’ve got your back_ ) can settle down. When it’s not so bad, or he’s got a mission in the morning that demands him firing on all cylinders, he’ll read a little, tablet dimmed and glowing faintly gold to not strain his eyes. It’s usually past mission reports – but only the ones that ended well. He knows better than to lie awake and think of what he could have done differently.

 

Other nights, when he’s tossed and turned for hours and done nothing other than left himself a _sweaty_ restless mess, he heads to the practice range and lets himself loose on the targets. It’s usually dead this time of night, and he takes comfort in the sound of Peacekeeper firing, hitting its mark.

 

It’s _usually_ dead, but the past few times he’s found himself sharing the space.

 

Shimada’s been on his feet all of a couple of weeks, and he throws himself at the training bots like they’ve personally wronged him, leaving behind a wreckage that makes even McCree wince a little at the clean up involved.

 

(Reyes usually takes the damage in his stride, looking at the mess the next morning. Sometimes he laughs, says that Morrison is going to have his head.)

 

(Sometimes he sounds more bitter about that than others.)

 

McCree gets the impression Shimada doesn’t care much about anything any more – doesn’t bother exchanging words with him, or even acknowledging McCree’s existence. McCree’s made the effort, of course, he’s friendly by nature and curious to boot – but there’s only so much silence even _he_ can get in response before he stops trying. It’s something they’re going to have to work on, Reyes already talking about taking Shimada on missions with them, but right now he’s happy enough to give Shimada his space.

 

( _Happy_ ’s not quite the right word, something itching at him as he looks at Shimada and watches Shimada tear the bots to pieces and wait only as long as it takes those that still can to reassemble themselves, but McCree’s never really been a happy soul, just content to take what he can get.)

 

Tonight’s different, though. Shimada had brought his sword across a pair of bots like it was weightless, landed neatly a few feet away and then.

 

Stopped.

 

McCree watches him for a moment of the corner of his eye, firing a few rounds from Peacekeeper and not caring all that much where they end up.

 

(They hit the target dead centre, and McCree _doesn’t think_ about that, the same way he doesn’t think about Deadeye in action.)

 

Shimada’s fluid, always in motion – usually moving in the opposite direction to him, when they cross in the corridor. McCree doesn’t think it’s personal, pretty sure that everyone short of Angela gets the same treatment, and Angela’s a literal goddess that treats everyone like they’re a good person that’s worth something. That Angela gets special treatment doesn’t sting, it seems only right.

 

Right now though, he’s stock still. Almost unnaturally so, if McCree were feeling unkind, which he tries not to do any more, now that he’s one of the Good Guys. (Never mind that the Good Guys have pulled some shit almost as dirty as Deadlock did; at least they’re trying, at least it’s keeping the Actual Good Guys’ hands clean.) McCree tries to avert his eyes, but he often finds them drawn to Shimada.

 

(He tells himself it’s because the man literally _glows_ , and not because he finds himself looking at the way Shimada moves, and _not_ because he’s thinking about that one time he heard Shimada laugh at something Angela said, that he’s still not sure he didn’t just imagine.)

 

Maybe a minute passes before he caves and asks, “You doin’ okay there?”

 

He expects silence. Hell, he probably _wants_ silence, wants Shimada to ignore him and get back to destroying the training bots that probably cost a small fortune every time one’s wrecked beyond repair.

 

He doesn’t expect Shimada’s voice, small and tinny: “No.”

 

McCree can help Pharah when she’s been shot down by a pretty girl or gotten in an argument with Ana. McCree can help Reyes when he’s angry and needs a target to take it out on that won’t take it personally.

 

McCree doesn’t think he’s even remotely equipped to help Shimada. He holsters Peacekeeper, and tries to keep his voice as level and inoffensive as it can get. “Need me to get Angela?”

 

Shimada flinches, starts to back away to a corner of the room. “No.”

 

“Reyes?”

 

Not even a word this time – Shimada shakes his head, fast enough that the light of his eyes blurs into a crimson streak.

 

And McCree is out of suggestions. He doesn’t pretend to know what’s going on in Shimada’s head right now – only knows the basics of what happened to him to begin with. Shimada was killed – or as close to it as someone can get and still be breathing – and now he works for Blackwatch. Other agents know more than he does – mostly Intel, more intimately acquainted with the Shimada clan to begin with – but McCree’s just read the abbreviated version. He’s so far out of his depth it’s a wonder his head’s above water.

 

“You need me to stay?” He tries to phrase it as a real offer, not just an excuse to escape – much as he’d like to use it as such.

 

The nod’s almost imperceptible, but McCree’s got sharper eyesight than most. It’s one of those things he tries not to think too hard on, most of the time, but he’s grateful for it now.

 

Shimada’s got his back pressed firm against the wall now, and the glow gives away how his eyes dart rapidly across the room.

 

“Just me and you, right now.” He considers asking Athena to disable the training bots, but wonders if Shimada remembers her constant presence. What’ll happen if he gets reminded. “That mask helping, or d’you need to take it off?”

 

Another shake. The mask stays put.

 

“Want me any closer?” McCree hopes the answer’s no – doesn’t trust himself to get any closer and not break what’s already on the edge of shattering. Way beyond his pay grade, and to this day he still doesn’t know what his pay grade _is._

 

Shimada doesn’t respond. McCree curses anyone who cares to listen. He takes a step forward, taking comfort that his spurs announce his presence as well as his words could. There’s no flinch – no response at all, in fact, so he takes another step forward. And another, until he’s only a few feet away from Shimada.

 

He’s not sure he’s ever been so close to the other man. From here, he can see clearly the seams where his flesh meets Angela’s handiwork, the skin puffed and inflamed. He can see the scars by Shimada’s eyes, angry raised lines that cover more skin than not. Part of McCree wants to look away.

 

(The other part wants to keep looking, and looking, and roll up his sleeves and show where Deadlock and Blackwatch have left their marks, knowing it’s not going to even come close.)

 

“Didn’t sleep so well, my first week here,” he says, not sure where he’s going with this – just sure he wants Shimada to look less like some kind of injured animal caught in a trap. “Ended up with Reyes watching over me while I slept. Not in a weird way, mind,” he hastens to add, not that he thinks Shimada either cares or is taking his words in, “just… helped put my mind at rest.”

 

He wishes he had a cigarillo handy. Something comforting about having his mouth occupied, a moment’s pause before he had to get his words out straight. “Anyone offered that to you?”

 

Another pause, before a thought occurs. “You do _need_ to sleep, right?”

 

Shimada scoffs, but he’s close enough that McCree can still see the panic in his eyes. “My brain is untouched.”

 

“Sure Reyes would tell me I should be so lucky,” McCree says, and pretends this isn’t the most Shimada’s ever spoken to him. Pretends there isn’t something about Shimada’s voice that sends something electric down his spine. “So, you still need to sleep. How much have you done of that recently?”

 

Shimada’s eyes narrow, and his scars curl around them. McCree wonders if they’re still recent enough to sting. “I can still serve my purpose.”

 

“That’s,” McCree makes a point of counting on his fingers, “six words, and none of them answered my question.”

 

He watches Shimada’s shoulders stiffen, reposition into something more on the offensive, and resists the urge to breathe a sigh of relief. Shame that he’s come to think of Shimada’s natural state being ‘angry’, but a damn sight better (and easier to handle) than the alternative. “Did the Commander send you to check on me?” he asks, voice as sharp as the sword he still has clenched in his hands.

 

McCree raises his hands – easy. He’s harmless. “Nope. This is all on me.”

 

(He’s _not_ harmless, never been harmless since he figured out how to hit his target every time, and especially since Deadlock took him in and trained his aim on people rather than empty beer cans.)

 

Shimada’s not stupid. McCree’s heard enough about his – teammate? Colleague? - to know at least that much.

 

But some of Shimada’s tension eases, his posture shifting into something more natural. Still the tight grip on the sword, back still against the wall, but at least a little less defensive than it was a moment ago.

 

“Doctor Ziegler tells me a medically induced coma is not the same as rest.”

 

“Reckon she knows a little something about that,” McCree says, easy enough. No judgement there. “But I reckon it’s hard to switch off, too.”

 

“If I _switch off_ , an emergency alarm goes off in Doctor Ziegler’s room.” There’s an edge of amusement there. “I doubt she would appreciate it.”

 

McCree imagines, for just a moment, Angela Ziegler with bedhead and pyjamas sprinting towards them – then feels guilty for imagining the good doctor anything less than pristine. “Think you might be right. Still, there’s got to be a middle ground somewhere. Need me to keep you company?”

 

It’s half a joke, but it’s half Reyes staying up on an uncomfortable chair all night, keeping an eye on some dumb kid who’d be rotting in a cell without him.

 

McCree reminds himself that even though Shimada – _Genji_ Shimada; unfair to call him only by the name of a family that betrayed him about as badly as anyone _could_ – doesn’t need handling with kid gloves, a kinder hand couldn’t go amiss. “The offer’s there, if you need it.”

 

The glow of Genji’s eyes hides most of what McCree could usually pick up on. “You have a meeting with Commander Reyes in the morning.”

 

“And you haven’t slept in more than two weeks.” He doesn’t ask how Genji knew his schedule – doesn’t want to presume. Maybe Genji’s already figured out the inner workings of Blackwatch. Maybe Reyes could learn a thing or two from him. “’Sides, I’ve been pushing my luck with Reyes for years. No need to stop now.”

 

“It’s foolish.”

 

“And that’s not a no.”

 

Genji stares at him, and McCree reminds himself that Angela’s not a miracle worker, and that Genji’s not seeing any more than a human pair of eyes could.

 

He’s still not entirely convinced.

 

“Wait outside. My door will remain locked.”

 

“Wouldn’t expect things any other way.”

 

“This will not happen again.”

 

“Not going to hold it against you if it does.”

 

Genji’s human fist curls, and McCree idly wonders if he plans to punch him. Wonders if he cares enough to dodge. Wonders if it might not do Genji some good to strike out at a person, rather than just the bots.

 

When Genji speaks, his voice is careful, even with the mechanical burr underneath. “You’re a strange man, McCree.”

 

“Please,” McCree says, hand at the brim of his hat, “friends call me Jesse.”

**Author's Note:**

> Writing for the first time in years - please excuse the rustiness and that I'm somehow running late on day _one_ of this week. *finger guns*


End file.
